


say to the worms who will devour you with kisses

by JackOfNone



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood for Lube, Bloodplay, Fingerfucking, Gross, Guro, Humiliation, M/M, Rape Roleplay, Stabbing, Sword Fellatio, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When love is forbidden and desire is perverted, what's left?</p>
            </blockquote>





	say to the worms who will devour you with kisses

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE NOTE:** This takes place in an AU where WoW equipment design isn't insane and Byfrost is shaped something like a normal sword (albeit one made of fel green glass and probably festooned with skulls). I feel like this was a necessary concession to make for the purposes of porn.
> 
> I spent forever writing this so it'll probably receive some edits to make it a little more coherent.

“Why did you do it?” Koltira hissed, his voice ragged and harsh. Half an hour and his crushed throat had already healed enough for him to speak. He’d be back on his feet by nightfall at this rate. 

“Orbaz would have killed you,” Thassarian said. Koltira laughed at that, his wounded throat breaking the sound into a strangled bark. They could speak freely here, sound and arcane pryings dampened by the swirling purple barrier of Thassarian’s wards. Only a few minutes of it should not arouse suspicion.

“That’s rich,” Koltira said, “coming from you.” 

“I know,” Thassarian said, after a moment. No further answer or explanation seemed forthcoming, and anyway there was really no further explanation to give. Cruel words, Koltira knew — he had not been Thassarian’s first kill by far, but he had been the first he had ripped from his grave, and remorse had stoked that tiny rebellious spark that Koltira had sensed in him before their duel. The human knelt beside Koltira, who still sat where Thassarian had set him down against a crumbling patch of wall. Koltira watched him closely — he was tense as a bowstring, even though the chances of them being caught right now were slim. Thassarian reached out, then seemed to think better of it. Good. Kindness had always been a reckless indulgence between them — dangerous, forbidden, absurd. Koltira wanted a moment without that damning thrill to collect his thoughts, and a gesture of comfort now might have driven him mad. 

“Orbaz will talk, you know,” Koltira said quietly. “By dawn tomorrow I’m sure the everyone will know you interfered with my training—“ 

“There’s a difference between training and torture,” Thassarian growled. “I spared a fledgeling from needless destruction. If they cull me for this they’ll have to cull Orbaz too — he hates you without reason. That’s just as much treason as what I did.” Koltira let his eyes fall closed. 

“Regardless of whether or not you feel I deserve torture, Thassarian, you’ve made me look weak. If anyone’s neck will be on the chopping block tomorrow it will be mine.”

Thassarian, incredibly, did not appear to have considered this. Typical — impulsive, short-sighted, so very like a human even in death. Thassarian’s brow furrowed in thought. 

“No,” he said. His voice dropped to a deep whisper as the barrier around them started to crack and fade, so low even Koltira could barely hear him as he bent closer to his ear. “That’s easy enough to erase.” Koltira shook his head, almost imperceptibly — a question. “I have a proposal for you, when you’re healed. One I think you’ll like.”

* * *

The Scarlet armory had long been abandoned, its inhabitants all put to the sword or fled and its contents looted. The winter wind whipped through the building’s shattered husk, rattling the burnt remains of shutters and jostling loose bits of crumbling masonry and singed blood-red banners. The roof had been collapsed and torn off by storm and war, so the moonlight streamed into the open room.

Koltira knew Thassarian had heard him coming. He had made no attempt to disguise his approach. The human, who had been sitting to attend to his sword, stood and faced Koltira with a wary expression, his hand still wrapped around the weapon’s hilt. He was alone, armed but unarmored. That made two of them.

“Deathweaver,” Thassarian said, inclining his head ever so slightly. 

Koltira withdrew Byfrost from its sheath with a hollow ring. “Do not flatter me with pleasantries,” he hissed. The sword shivered in his hand, hesitant, and black started to creep and spark at the edges of his vision. Koltira’s feet scratched furrows in the dirty snow as he fell into a fighting stance, Byfrost extended towards Thassarian. “I should kill you for your insult. Make you suffer.” 

A small smile, thin and wicked, crept across Thassarian’s face. “You are welcome to try, _fledgeling_ ,” Thassarian said, drawing out the last word with a twinge of sarcasm. He picked up his own runeblade and drew it with a trail of frost. 

Koltira snarled in rage and charged. 

The clashed together with a ringing of unearthly metal and a flurry of snow kicked up behind them. Koltira cleaved for Thassarian’s shoulder but Thassarian brought his sword up for a parry, and Byfrost’s threw up sparks along the edge of Thassarian’s blade until they locked hilts. Koltira twisted Byfrost in his grip, hoping to wrench Thassarian’s runeblade from his hand, but his grip held and Thassarian disengaged. Within a moment they were circling each other again. 

Byfrost howled as Koltira swept it through the air. Of course, the runeblade knew his mind, and was displeased with what it saw. It was always displeased — it wanted more, more than Koltira could possibly give, and it would not nearly be satiated tonight. 

Thassarian feinted for the outside and then turned his blade towards Koltira’s head — a wide, sloppy arc that Koltira easily sidestepped. Koltira took advantage of the opening and cut for Thassarian’s side, but Thassarian smashed the pommel of his sword into Koltira’s face with enough force to send him staggering backwards. 

“I spared you for the good of the Scourge,” Thassaarian said. “Do not imagine I will do it again.” 

“I never asked for your help,” Koltira spat. His nose was certainly broken — black blood dripped down his face, hissing as it hit the snow. “I never asked for anything from you.” 

_Arrogant superior underestimates a talented underling — it’s happened often enough that it’ll pass scrutiny, as long as we fight for real. Strike to wound, Koltira, and I’ll do the same._

Thassarian came at Koltira again, a steadier strike to his shoulder, and Koltira’s counterattack was intentionally short. They locked eyes for a moment, and Koltira was satisfied to see horrified realization on Thassarian’s face as he realized he had overextended himself. Koltira pulled back and swung, and Thassarian was not fast enough to block the stroke. 

Byfrost smashed into Thassarian’s side, hard enough to cleave clear to bone. Thassarian was still standing, but not for long — Byfrost shuddered and thrummed as it drank in the fell energies holding Thassarian together. Koltira gasped as Byfrost slaked its thirst and screamed for more, to cut deeper and crush bone and spill blood. Thassarian staggered and Koltira plunged forward, slamming the both of them roughly against an ancient wall rack before Thassarian let out a cry of agony and fell to the ground. Koltira followed, his knees pinning Thassarian’s arms, his hands still wrapped around Byfrost’s hilt. 

For a moment they lay like that, Thassarian struggling helplessly as Byfrost’s greedy edge sapped his strength. Koltira trembled all over and he was certain Thassarian could feel it where their bodies touched. Death and damnation, he wanted to kill him. It would be so easy. A blow to the head would split his skull in twain, or he could twist Byfrost deeper until it cracked his ribs and plunged into his heart, drinking Thassarian’s essence down until there was nothing left but a broken corpse, twitching beneath—

Koltira snarled in rage and half flung Byfrost from him. The blade left a raw, oozing gash in Thassarian’s side, and there was a flash of white bone clearly visible when Koltira grabbed him by the throat and hauled him upright. 

“I need no runeblade to master you,” Koltira hissed in Thassarian’s ear. It wasn’t the most convincing of reasons for discarding his weapon, but if he kept hold of it the thing would goad him into killing Thassarian before long. That wasn’t part of the deal they’d made. He’d already hurt the other death knight more than he meant to, judging by the way he offered no rejoinder to his insult and twisted limply in his grip. Koltira pushed Thassarian against the crumbling bricks and forced his chin up to look into his eyes, and the moment’s respite was enough to snap Thassarian back into focus. 

“Do your worst,” he hissed, his teeth gritted against the pain — an invitation, plain as day. The look in his cold eyes was a strangely pleading one — not for mercy, far from it. 

He seized Thassarian by the shoulders and pulled him bodily away from the wall to fling him into a battered-down weapons rack, holding him there with the full weight of his body. Thassarian’s head slammed roughly into the wood, scraping a fresh wound just above his eyebrow, and he struggled to turn — so strongly that Koltira almost lost his grip. He groped for purchase and his hand found the hilt of an ancient dagger. 

With one quick movement, he drew the old blade from its place and shoved it through Thassarian’s chest up to the hilt. The thin blade fit neatly between his ribs and bit into the wood on the other side, pinning Thassarian like a butterfly. Thassarian, weakened as he was, could not suppress a screech of agony, drowned in gurgling as the sword pierced his lungs. 

“The blade’s nearly rusted through,” Koltira hissed. “If you struggle too much, it’ll snap off inside you.” He twisted the blade to prove his point, feeling it weakly twist against Thassarian’s ribs, on the verge of breaking. A blade through the lungs was painful but not destructive to one already dead, but shattered metal with no easy method of removal was a different story. That would mean hours of agony as the necrosurgeons flayed him open, digging out the shards before they shredded him from the inside. Koltira felt Thassarian’s struggle cease beneath him.

They were pressed close together now — Koltira could feel the muscles of Thassarian’s broad back, deathly still now, and the tight curve of his thighs pressed up against Koltira’s hips. Blood leaked from the wound in Thassarian’s back, around the edge of the blade, and Koltira shuddered as it soaked through the thin cloth of his shirt, smearing his bare skin. Thassarian was cold as ice and Koltira was fever-hot, the feel of blood and Thassarian’s barely audible hiss of pain blurring his senses until he fancied he could almost taste Thassarian’s pain and…fear. Yes, fear — Thassarian was afraid. Afraid Koltira would go too far, perhaps. Afraid that, once given carte blanche to do as he willed with Thassarian’s helpless body, that Thassarian’s trust in him would be misplaced. 

Koltira took a deep breath, dug his fingers into Thassarian’s hips until he drew blood and a moan from Thassarian’s lips — a moan of mixed pain and desire. Koltira could not tell whether it was the pain he wanted or if it was the simple closeness of their skin, the fevered press of Koltira’s groin so close against his hips in a wretched imitation of foreplay. Koltira’s body remained as unresponsive as a corpse, but somewhere in the snow, Byfrost thrummed in response. Its presence snaked down his spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach, and his hands twitched as he imagined, vividly, taking Byfrost and burying it slowly, sensually, into Thassarian from behind in some grotesque parody of the act of love. 

As though Thassarian had sensed his desire, he made a choked noise in the back of his throat. No, this wouldn’t do. Fiercely, perhaps desperately trying to distract himself from the siren call of Byfrost’s bottomless bloodlust, Koltira’s hands flew to Thassarian’s waist, tearing the thick leather sword belt from him. He jerked Thassarian’s head back by the hair. 

“Open your mouth,” Koltira snarled, and twisted his hand when Thassarian did not obey. The action jostled the knife in his ribs, drawing another short hiss of pain from him; Koltira took the opportunity to shove the belt into Thassarian’s mouth until it rested behind his teeth, then belted it behind his head. “I’ve bested you. Give in.” Thassarian snarled something made incoherent by the gag, his chest convulsing as he reflexively choked on it. Koltira chuckled darkly. “Still got some fight left in you, hm?” It galled him to feel how easily the words tumbled from him, how neatly he slipped into this role — cruel and ruthless, the slight hint of a smile playing across his face as he planned Thassarian’s humiliation in his head. Did that make him a monster, if he played the role of one too well? 

Koltira slipped his thumb under the lacings of Thassarian’s pants and shoved roughly downwards, savoring the feel of rough fabric sliding over cold skin. Thassarian groaned behind his gag as he was completely exposed, Koltira’s nails raking red-blue trails across his flesh. 

The silence had stretched out too long, Koltira realized, the lingering brush of his fingers leaning away from a threat and closer to a caress. He slicked his fingers in Thassarian’s blood, now flowing freely from the wound on his back, and twisted the blade in him until he screamed into the leather that choked him from behind. 

“Did you expect favors for saving me? Favors of a certain kind, perhaps?” Koltira said, sliding his gore stained fingers down the curve of Thassarian’s back until they rested just at the base of his spine. He felt Thassarian tremble under his fingers, perhaps in anticipation. “After all, you’re always clinging to those last shreds of humanity. I could see it in your eyes the moment I awakened.” Koltira’s fingers dipped lower and teased the edge of Thassarian’s entrance for a brief, dangerous moment before he forced two fingers inside roughly, the blood on his fingers making it slide all the way in to the second knuckle before encountering much resistance. Thassarian choked and twisted, more from the shock of the violation than any pain, but a hand on the hilt of the dagger in his ribs stopped him cold. “I suppose you thought I’d fall on my back the moment I realized the identity of my deliverer.” Koltira pumped his hand in and out, thrusting into Thassarian as deep as he could go, drawing a groan from deep in his throat that was only barely muffled from the gag. Koltira had felt the pull of Thassarian’s erection when he’d shoved his pants out of the way, so he snaked his free hand around to stroke his already hardening cock, drawing a hiss as Thassarian tried unsuccessfully to twist out of Koltira’s grip. He fucked him that way, with one hand stroking his cock. “Are you enjoying this?” Koltira snarled, forcing in a third finger and squeezing Thassarian’s cock roughly. “Disgusting.” Harder, faster he thrusted, jamming into him so hard that the rack rattled beneath them with the force of it, and Thassarian had to struggle to keep himself still enough that the dagger didn’t break off between his ribs. Blood oozed from the wound in Thassarian’s side with every thrust. 

“Do you like that?” Koltira snarled. “Is this what you wanted? I ought to take you with your own runeblades — one behind and one in your throat, both up to the hilt. It’s the only use they’re good for.” Koltira’s hand drifted away from Thassarian’s cock, down the length of his thigh in a quick caress — half to remind Koltira of where he was than anything else — before he seized the handle of the rusty dagger and pulled it free, followed only moments later by his impaling fingers. Thassarian gasped raggedly and bit down on the leather between his teeth before he slumped, defeated, to his knees. 

Koltira stared down at the spectacle before him — Thassarian kneeling, hair in disarray and trousers shoved mostly off, bent double over his straining cock. A perfect display of living depravity, the kind of thing his brother might have been caught doing with noble’s daughters in the woods of Eversong, if not for the gore that stained the snow and soaked both of their clothing. 

And the damnable unresponsiveness of his own body, of course. Thassarian reached up, his hands trembling, and tore the leather gag from his mouth before doubling over with coughing that racked his whole body, brackish blood spewing from his nose and mouth in thick ropes that spattered on the frozen ground with a squelch. Thassarian struggled to raise his head and looked up at Koltira from beneath his frost-dusted eyelashes, his eyes fogged over with the haze of agony.

This had been Thassarian’s plan, of course. Give what they wanted to give to each other under a false pretense of torture — shroud kindness in cruelty. Koltira caught Thassarian’s eyes for a moment and read there in the remnants of some living desire, something like passion. Koltira, however, felt nothing stirring but the worms that squirmed along the insides of his veins. He’d been well and truly hollowed out, body and soul. Jealousy flared in his heart — Thassarian was a man still. In the end he was a monster. 

Thassarian seemed to sense Koltira’s hesitation, his frustration, and tried to claw the mess from his face so he could speak again. Whatever he was trying to say came out as a strangled, guttural noise, the words drowned under the fluid bubbling up from his wounded lungs. 

Koltira wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before dipping his fingers in between his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood and teasing out the scraps of flesh under his nails with his tongue. Something in Koltira — his own will, the will of the Lich King, the shrieking frustration of his vampiric blade tossed carelessly aside in the snow — stirred at the taste, at the feel of rent flesh against his teeth and the sight of a victim on his knees, drowning in his own blood.

Koltira started to pace back and forth, looming over Thassarian’s defeated form. “Do your worst, you said,” Koltira hissed, almost angrily. “I could cut off your head where you stand. Take it home for a souvenir, maybe even give it a kiss once in a while.” Thassarian tilted his head up with some difficulty to watch Koltira’s tirade, listening in silence, giving up on speech. “There’s enough corpses beneath my feet to make a good pack of four or five ghouls,” Koltira said, “and enough weapons on this rack to pin you hand and foot to the ground. Or maybe I could shatter your legs below the knee, so you can’t run away from them.” The words tumbled from his mouth, spurred on by some deep unknown desire, his breath starting to come in short pants the more he spoke. “Maybe you’d like to taken by a ghoul’s claws, hm? Like making love to a handful of razors. I could have them make a eunuch of you before they gutted you from the inside — they’d make such a mess of you that Lich King himself wouldn’t be able to put you back together again.” Thassarian made some effort to move, but succeeded only in bringing more blood welling behind his teeth. He couldn’t drown or choke — not really, anyway — but his body remembered the reflex and paralyzed him. 

Koltira tightened his hands into fists and looked down at Thassarian. There was something like doubt starting in his eyes — almost as if he’d made Thassarian afraid he would go to far, violate the terms of their agreement. That vision of fear made Koltira’s knees weak, thrumming in the pit of his stomach with something that was strangely akin to arousal. He really was a monster. 

Very well. If he was a monster, then here Thassarian was, ready willing to be tortured. If he was to be monster, he’d be Thassarian’s monster and no one else’s.

Without a movement that was closer to instinct than thought, Koltira knelt and took Byfrost from where he had discarded it in the snowdrift. The weapon sung in his hand, pulsing greedily like a beating heart. It was angry at being cast aside, Koltira could feel it — the hilt sparked with jolts of phantom pain along his palm, twitching in his grasp. It wanted blood. _He_ wanted blood.

“What if I took you with this?” Koltira found himself saying.

Koltira held the point of the sword in front of Thassarian’s face, where it wavered with an obvious threat of violence. Thassarian looked up at him, questioning; Koltira could kill him right now if he had a mind to. Shadow and flame, but he wanted that. He could no longer quite tell where his own desire began and Byfrost’s ended — the blade’s bloodlust rushed into the void left by physical want.

They lingered like that until Koltira felt certain both Thassarian and his sword understood that no killing stroke would be forthcoming. Then, finally, with his words sticking in his throat like maggots on meat, Koltira said, “Go on. You heard what I said.” 

Thassarian hesitated, and Koltira pressed the sword forward, touching the tip to Thassarian’s wet, parted lips. “Do a good job with your tongue and maybe I won’t bury it up to the hilt anywhere else,” Koltira said, and it was halfway a plea.

Understanding dawned on Thassarian’s face. Thassarian opened his mouth slightly and with a dangerously small amount of hesitation, took the blade between his lips. Koltira gasped in earnest — it might as well have been his own flesh and blood sliding into Thassarian’s waiting mouth, for all that he could feel every inch of it keenly. He felt Thassarian’s tongue stroke the broad side of Byfrost’s point, testing the limits of the edge. Koltira’s hand trembled on the hilt, and he dug his feet into the snow to prevent him from simply thrusting the whole length into Thassarian’s waiting mouth. He wrapped his other hand around the hilt to steady himself. 

“Deeper,” he managed, between clenched teeth. He pushed forward the tiniest fraction and Thassarian seemed to get the idea. Koltira let him guide his mouth further down the blade, carefully positioning himself so that the edge wouldn’t bite into his flesh. Byfrost screamed in frustration, and Koltira’s hands tightened on the hilt, the woven leather carving lines into his palm. 

“Too slow,” Koltira hissed, and Thassarian made a choking noise as Koltira pushed the blade deeper without warning. The edge caught the side of Thassarian’s cheek as it slid home, fresh blood sluicing wetly over the lurid green of Byfrost’s edge; Thassarian’s eyes went wide with a look of pure, un-acted panic that nearly brought Koltira to his knees. He put the tip of his boot against Thassarian’s cock and pressed, and Thassarian’s eyes clenched shut in pain. “Still hard, I see,” Koltira growled. “Take care of that, and keep your tongue busy.” 

Thassarian’s hand fumbled blindly at his cock, grinding against Koltira’s boot in his haste to obey Koltira’s orders. Koltira could not imagine a more complete display of humiliation — Thassarian servicing the length of a live blade like an eager whore to keep Koltira from cleaving his head in two, running his tongue along the groove in the center, the blood from his mutilated mouth running in rivulets down his chin. Koltira tried to keep Byfrost steady but it jumped in his hands, and he gasped out loud as he felt the point catch on Thassarian’s tongue and tear a chunk of flesh. Thassarian barely reacted, except to grasp more furiously at his cock. In, out, the blade slid, Thassarian’s mouth laid open with every stroke, the warm flood of Byfrost drinking deep of his agony contrasting with the perversely physical coldness of his mouth. Koltira’s breath was coming in a short, shallow pant — he knew of no other way to express the anticipation, the _pleasure_ pooling in his belly just below the never-healing wound Thassarian had dealt him long ago, and so resorted to old habits.

Thassarian’s teeth juddered against the blade as his whole body convulsed in what Koltira could only guess was climax, or something like it. Thassarian’s control momentarily broken, the blade slid wildly inside his gore-slicked mouth, splitting his cheek and Koltira gasped out loud as he swore he could feel Byfrost’s point touch the back of Thassarian’s throat. Koltira pulled the sword free with a groan and caught Thassarian as he slumped forward, seizing him by the collar and pressing a desperate kiss to his ruined mouth — dangerous, reckless, beyond perverse, a kiss of pure treason to the Scourge — before he reached up with a spark of necromantic power dancing from his fingertips and sent Thassarian spiraling into temporary oblivion.

* * *

Thassarian was alone when he awoke — that was a kindness, at least. He’d known what he was asking of Koltira and accepted whatever consequences might spring from the rest of the cabal knowing that he had been overpowered and thoroughly, brutally shamed by a fledgeling. Still, if he could dress himself at least before staggering, bloodied and barely able to walk, back into camp, that was good fortune if nothing else. 

It took a necrosurgeon of some considerable skill to fix the ravages of Koltira’s blade. The withered scholar who stitched him closed — a still-living man, if only just — tutted and sucked in a rattling breath at the strangeness of the wounds, his bony fingers playing along the gashes where Koltira’s sword, and Koltira himself when it came to that, had taken his pleasure. 

“How on earth,” the creature hissed, “did you come by such wounds?” 

“I was justly punished,” Thassarian said, relishing the searing pain that flared up where Koltira had touched him, “for my crimes.” And try as he might, the surgeon could get no further words from him.


End file.
